


You Don't Have to Climb These Walls

by haraya



Series: My Weary Heart Has Come to Rest in Yours [1]
Category: The Arcana (Visual Novel)
Genre: F/M, Female Apprentice (The Arcana), Fluff, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-01
Updated: 2018-10-01
Packaged: 2019-07-23 08:52:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16155728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/haraya/pseuds/haraya
Summary: . . . I've already built you a door.Vulnerabilityis such a scary word, isn't it?





	You Don't Have to Climb These Walls

**Author's Note:**

> Does anyone else spend an inordinate amount of time thinking about how Asra goes from always-on-edge-street-urchin to master-wizard-who-can-nap-anywhere or is that just me
> 
> Set pre-game/pre-amnesia, feat. my apprentice, Rei.

Asra doesn't mean to, the first time he falls asleep near her. Perhaps that's why it comes so much as a shock.

They're in the backroom, enjoying their lunch hour with the shop temporarily closed. They're warm, and full, and the sound of her flipping the pages of a spell tome is unexpectedly soothing. In the next room over, her aunt is rearranging the display under the glass counter, muttering softly to herself. Faust is warming herself in the sunlight pouring golden through the stained glass window, looking so at ease that he's almost a little envious, so maybe that's why he decides to close his eyes for a brief moment—

—and in the next Miss Rei is shaking him gently awake, her small, calloused hand pressing softly against his forearm.

He jerks his head up from the table, having pillowed it on an outstretched arm, and blinks dazedly at her low, indulgent chuckle.

_Where is he what happened why is she_ smiling _at him—?_

(Is that _really_ the question he should be asking?)

"Lunch break's over," Miss Rei says, voice still pitched in a quiet murmur, like she's trying not to startle him. "We should get back to work."

"I—" he stutters, wiping hastily at his mouth with the back of his hand. He wasn't _drooling,_ was he? "Did I fall asleep?"

He's surprised at the depths of his stupidity. Years and _years_ of street-hardened habit, of cultivated instinct to not drop his guard in places that aren't _absolutely_ safe—all of that thrown away for a pretty smile and the lilting sound of the strangely familiar melody she'd hummed under her breath as she read.

(Did he really survive the streets only to be reduced to this?)

He already knows her answer before she says it, the playful quirk of her mouth giving it away. "You did. I'd let you keep sleeping, but Auntie'll just give you trouble for it, I'm sure." She rises, tucking an osprey feather bookmark between the pages of the spell tome before closing it and flashing him a smile over her shoulder. "Shall we go?"

"Right," he mumbles, feeling intensely self-conscious, unsettled in his own skin, but he rises anyway, and follows her back into the shop.

 

\---

 

The second time he falls asleep next to her, his muscles are aching, and it's hard to fight the gathering heaviness behind his eyelids.

They're in the forest, in the sunlit clearing that houses Asra and Muriel's little hut. Miss Embri has been instructing the two of them in combat for the past four years, but this is the first time since she moved to Vesuvia that Miss Rei has tagged along, coerced by her aunt into preparing salves and poultices for their ensuing scrapes.

His turn in the ring had been earlier; Miss Embri had thoroughly trounced him— _again,_ using her years of fighting experience, the details of which he is not privy to—which is really no big surprise, but still no less of an embarrassment, not when Miss Rei had been watching, sitting with Muriel as he waited his turn in the shade of a towering oak.

Now he's the one sitting beneath the tree with her, listening as the sounds of sparring seem to grow steadily distant; somewhere, the warbling cry of a songbird pierces the late afternoon air, carried on the autumn wind that ruffles his hair and lulls him slowly into a complacent doze.

He jerks awake, periodically, as he sways unbalanced in his sleep, almost tipping over, until Miss Rei presses a warm hand against his cheek, guiding his head down to rest on her shoulder before returning to her work without missing a beat. He flushes, and tries to pull away.

_"Miss Rei—"_ he says, a flustered apology already on his lips, but her hand flies back up to keep his head down, insistent.

"It's alright," she says, her voice a quiet contrast to the grunts and yells coming from the makeshift sparring ring. Her breath ruffles his bangs a little when she turns her head slightly as she speaks. "You're tired, aren't you? Sleep."

He would fight it—he _should_ fight it, his urchin instincts _screaming_ at him to stay awake, but in the cool autumn afternoon, she is soft and warm, and his muscles are tired, and he sort of maybe trusts her, so—

_(Don't do it don't do it don't do it—)_

With a sigh, he closes his eyes and leans into her shoulder, letting himself sink into a light but peaceful sleep.

 

\---

 

The third time he falls asleep with her beside him is the same night he falls in love.

He wakes on a straw pallet, burning from the inside out. He has no idea how he got here.

He opens his eyes. Through the haze of a fever, the swirling colors of his vision coalesce into distinct shapes.

She is the first thing he sees, and the first thing he thinks is, _Am I dead?_

He _must_ be, because why else would someone so lovely be here?

(He's never believed in heaven. He would never have gotten in, even if it was real.)

But she's here, kneeling on the floor near his bedside, her waist-length hair out of her usual bun as she works, and that's—

That's a _blessing_ if he ever did see one.

(He has always thought her pretty, from the first time she stumbled into his stall, but in this moment, with her skin golden in the lamplight, her lashes casting shadows on the curve of her cheek, she has never been more beautiful.)

It takes him a bit longer to register his surroundings; as often as he's been in the backroom, he's never seen it from this angle—lying down on her straw bed in the corner, behind the curtained-off section that serves as her makeshift bedroom. The heavy drapery that serves as both a privacy screen and a sound muffler has been drawn aside, allowing him to make out the rest of the shadowed room—the stacked crates of miscellaneous inventory, the crystals hanging from the dark wood rafters, the reading table they'd spent so many hours at, with teacups and spell tomes and soft, shy laughter filling the space between them.

How did he _get_ here?

_Awake!_ Faust whispers in his mind, but he doesn't know where she is.

_Where are you?_ he thinks. _What happened?_

_Upstairs!_ she answers. _Warm. Asra sick!_

He closes his eyes, sifting through the muck of his memories, trying to remember—

_It's winter._ The wind howling outside the thin walls is proof enough. _It's winter, and he had left the shop after the workday, and made his way back to the hut—_

He didn't make it to the hut. Did he even make it past the treeline?

He blinks, returning to the present. The earthy smell of crushed herbs rises up from Rei's mortar and pestle, and it reminds him of his home in the woods, where petrichor slips through the gap under the door after a summer rain. She looks so serious, working—lips pressed in a tight line as she measures out basil and ginger into a hammered brass bowl, and places it on the ring of a retort stand. She snaps her fingers near the wick of the alcohol burner, sparking a flame with her magic much like one would with flint and steel.

The feel of her magic—grown increasingly familiar to him, this past half-year—sends a tingle down his spine, and, combined with the sharp smoke of the burner, makes him (embarrassingly enough) sneeze.

Her head whips around immediately, warm brown eyes locking onto his, and she scoots closer on her knees, plucking the damp cloth off his brow. She brushes away his sweat-soaked bangs, placing her palm flat on his forehead to check his temperature.

"You're still warm," she murmurs softly, as she dips the cloth into a nearby bowl of water and wrings it out, replacing it on his forehead with gentle hands. _Yarrow, for fever,_ he remembers in her voice, as the herbal smell of the cloth reaches his nose. "How are you feeling?"

"Dead," is what he says. _Gone to heaven,_ is what he means.

She huffs a quiet laugh. "I hope not. I've already put a lot of effort into making sure you aren't."

And then she smiles, and cards her fingers through his hair, and because he's delirious with illness and infatuation both, he blurts out, _"You're so beautiful."_

She freezes, then blinks, then blushes so brightly that he wonders briefly if she's caught something, too.

"I—" she stutters, then presses her lips together like she's trying not to smile. "You're really quite out of it, aren't you?"

"'m _sick,_ not blind," he slurs, insistent, and grabs her hand before she can retract it, pressing it against his racing heart. "I mean it. You're really, _really_ beautiful, Rei."

She giggles, tugging nervously at an errant lock of her hair with her free hand, but doesn't pull away. "You really _are_ out of it. You never call me by my name."

"'s a pretty name. I like it." He's not really sure where he's going with this. "Wish I could call you that."

"Asra, I've been telling you to call me just _Rei_ for _months."_

"Oh. Right."

She laughs again, soft. He imagines it must feel warm in her throat, like mulled cider. It certainly feels like that to him. Her thumb brushes back and forth in a slow arc over the fabric of his shirt.

_(If he really did die now,_ he thinks, _at least he'd die happy.)_

He hears knocking, from somewhere, and voice saying, _"I'll get it!"_ but it's distant, and frankly he's too distracted by the fact that she's _touching_ him to care. He wonders, idly, if they can stay like this forever, until—

"Starshine! Your patient has a visitor—"

Miss Embri draws aside the curtains leading into the shop proper, with Muriel ambling behind her, a worried expression on his face and snowflakes dusting his cloak. Rei rips her hand out of his, tucking it into her lap, and Asra turns his heated face away from the door in embarrassment.

He hears Muriel heave a deeply exasperated sigh.

_"Well,"_ Miss Embri drawls, amusement clear in the purr of her voice, _"you've_ certainly got everything here under control, _haven't_ you, Rei?"

Asra can _hear_ her grinning, can feel her eyes shift from Rei to himself and back.

"You might as well stay for dinner, Muriel," Miss Embri says, "since you're already here."

"Thanks," he hears Muriel mumble, before the swish of the curtain signals their departure, leaving him and Rei alone in the backroom once more. She clears her throat, mortification still painting her cheeks pink. He watches her extinguish the burner and take the brass bowl from the stand, pouring its contents into a ceramic mug and adding a dollop of honey. She blows on it as she shuffles back over to him, her hands glowing with a cooling spell.

"Can you drink this for me?" she says, and though his joints protest and his vision swims, he fights to do as she asks, raising himself up on his elbows as she brings the cup to his lips. The slightly bitter taste of basil floods his tongue, chased down by the sweetness of honey and the tender way she cradles the back of his head to help him drink. He empties the cup, then collapses weakly back into the pillows.

She puts aside the cup and reaches for another small pot. When she uncorks it, the menthol smell of the paste inside wafts into the air.

"I'm—" she says, then pauses, flushing. "I'm going to open your shirt, okay?"

_"Okay."_ His voice _squeaks._

She unfastens the next two buttons on his shirt, since he always leaves the first undone; his shirt is already a size too small but he doesn't really have money for a new one—

His thoughts grind to a halt when her fingers, cool with the camphor salve, begin rubbing the ointment in slow circles onto his bare chest.

_I'm dead,_ he thinks. _I'm dying._ He hears the scrape of chairs on the second floor and thinks, _Muriel, I hope you live a good life,_ and then he looks up at Rei, crouched over him, and he thinks, _Could you kiss me before I go?_

"There," she says, pulling away, leaving him—miraculously—still breathing, if a little shallowly. She re-corks the pot and re-buttons his shirt, but the smell of camphor is still in his nose, and the warmth of her touch still streaks across his skin, leaving a different heat that rises above that of his fever.

"You need to rest," she whispers, sweeping back his hair again, and the low pitch of her voice sends a shiver down his spine. _"Sleep."_

_(Don't do it don't do it—)_

He squashes that inner voice down. It has no place here, between the warm walls of the shop, as he lays beneath her tender gaze.

"Stay?" he asks, already slurring as her fingers, alight with a sleeping spell, trace circles onto his temple.

(She's here. He's safe. He can rest.)

"I'll be right here," she says, and her smile is the last thing he sees before he closes his eyes and lets sleep claim him at last.

 

\---

 

The fourth time, he falls asleep _under_ her, the warm weight of her draped pleasantly across his chest.

They stumble into the shop in the early hours of the morning, a little tipsy from the free-flowing drinks served during the Masquerade. But it's not just alcohol buzzing through their veins—it's the giddy high of young love, of affections requited, of a first kiss enthusiastically returned. They've been giggling ever since the kiss on the bridge, trading even more small kisses the entire walk home, because they're young and a little drunk and a whole lot in love—

Miss Embri peeks down the stairwell as they come in, an indulgent smile on her lips even as she shakes her head at their antics.

"I brought her back," he announces proudly, shaking their joined hands at her as proof. He hasn't let go of her hand the whole way home.

"I can see that," Miss Embri says, the corners of her mouth turning up even as she presses her lips against a smile.

"And we made curfew."

"So you did."

"I'll let her go to bed now."

"You do that."

He gives her aunt a jaunty wave as Rei drags him along into the backroom. She sweeps aside the curtains only to fall into the mess of pillows littered on the straw pallet—and, because he still won't let go of her hand, he ends up pulled down beside her, with almost half of his body spilling off the side of the tiny mattress.

"Okay," he mumbles, face buried in a pillow that smells like her. "Okay, mission accomplished."

"Yeah." Exhaustion seems to be finally catching up to her.

"I should go home," he says, but doesn't move.

_"Mmngh,"_ she groans, protesting. "You don't _have_ to." She's _still_ holding his hand.

He grunts as he rolls onto his back, both his legs now thumping onto the floor, past the edge of the mattress. The movement shifts their linked hands to his other side, dragging her arm to rest across his middle.

"Maybe—" he says, "maybe I'll just . . . rest for a few minutes."

"Sure."

"Catch my breath."

"Sounds good," she says, and moves closer, slipping into the curve of his other arm to rest her head on his chest, over his heart. She breathes out a sigh, contentment suffusing the sound. "'s this okay?" she confirms with him, breath ghosting over his collarbone.

"'s perfect," he answers, and threads the fingers of his free hand into her hair.

He doesn't wake up again until way past sunrise.

 

\---

 

By the time Miss Embri decides to go traveling again and leaves Rei the shop, he's lost count of how many times he's fallen asleep next to her.

"It's a little lonely here, without Auntie Em," she muses, as they sit together on the big bed in the second floor. He's come over—even though it's a weekend and they _never_ open the shop on the weekend—ostensibly to practice magic together, but the books are left untouched, and his head is on her lap, and she's running her fingers through his hair, and he's already half asleep.

Somehow, this always happens.

"Mm," he hums, to show he's still listening.

"And, well, I thought—" she continues, hands going still, "since you're over all the time anyway, maybe you'd—"

"Mm?"

"Maybe you'd like to move in with me?" Her voice cracks on the last word.

His eyes snap open to see her biting down on her lip, cheeks pink, looking at anywhere but him. He feels his own face start to color, mirroring her nervousness.

(But _oh,_ what would that be like, to fall asleep beside her every night, to wake up beside her first thing every single morning?)

There is such _intimacy_ in being able to let down his guard, in trusting her with his safety when he's at his most vulnerable. It's still a little strange to him, even after all this time.

Because it had been different, with Muriel—their bond forged and tempered in the crucible of being unsafe together. But here, with her, he is free to close his eyes and just— _sleep._ No waking up at the slightest noise, no looking over his shoulder every ten minutes, no care at all in the world.

And—he could have this, maybe even every day for the rest of his life, if only he'd say—

_"Yes,"_ he blurts out, perhaps too quickly. _Not quick enough,_ he feels, secretly. "I'd like that."

Her smile, spreading slow and sweet across her face, is _definitely_ something he'd like to wake up to, tomorrow, and the day after that, and the day after that.

"Okay," she says. "Okay."

"I'll have to tell Muriel first, though," he says, settling back onto her lap, eyes closing as her fingers resume combing through his hair.

"Of course."

"And I'll have to bring over some stuff."

She huffs through her nose in a soft laugh. "I'll free up space for you in the dresser."

He nuzzles into her stomach to hide the inordinately ridiculous grin that splits his face. They stay curled against each other, warm in the afternoon sun that streams through the window, with _safety_ and _security_ seeping into his skin, worming into his heart until his breaths deepen into something slow and content. She begins to hum a song he thinks he might've dreamt of, once, her soft voice as soothing as the sunrise.

_Please,_ the scared little orphan's voice inside him thinks, as he dismantles the last of his walls, brick by hesitant brick, and sinks further into her warmth, _don't hurt me._

_Never,_ rings bright and clear in the gentle way her fingers card through his hair, and in the comforting familiarity of her voice as she lulls him with a melody that he's already half-forgotten by the time he falls asleep.


End file.
